


First Husband

by mongoose_bite



Series: Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton [22]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dyce discovers the obscure Orcish tradition; when an Orc’s dowry is paid, they are considered married to the one that paid it. Unfortunately, Dyce only discovers this after the fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Husband

“What if I paid your dowry?” Dyce asked.

The Orc sheathed her sword and looked him up and down, from his sun-streaked hair to his dusty leather boots.

“You’d be willing to do that?” she asked, her voice husky and her vowels shaped by the little tusks that jutted from her lower jaw, like all Orcs.

He shrugged, “Well, I’m going to spend the money on something and probably sooner rather than later. If it helps you out, why not?” He let her take her time deciding; obviously the expectations of her culture weighed heavily on her, but frankly he couldn’t imagine a worse fate than being married to someone you didn’t even know.

To look at her one would think she was an Orc’s Orc. She wore the kind of armour that Dyce would leave in a dungeon as too heavy to be worth carrying out, and she was a head taller than he was and her shoulders were broader. Red warpaint ringed her eyes and streaked her lean cheeks, and head was shaved save for a strip of slicked back hair. The only thing she lacked was scars and he was sure she’d get them sooner or later. But she’d been polite to him, and to his surprise had confided her concerns about her future to a complete stranger. Maybe he was a safe ear; her tribe might not take her misgivings well.

“I think it is a fine idea,” she said eventually. “The stronghold will need the gold anyway.” He handed over a bag of coins the same colour as her eyes, and idly scuffed his feet in the dust as he waited for her to collect her things.

“I’ll follow you,” she said.

“I’m going to Markarth,” he said.

“Anywhere you want to go is fine.”

“I get that a lot.” He laughed, “Maybe it’s my arse people that people are happy to follow.”

“It is quite nice,” she said gravely, after eyeing it off for a couple of moments.

“I think we’re going to get on fine,” Dyce said.

And so they did. Dyce was currently between horses, which is why he’d tried to plot a shortcut across country that had led him to Borgakh’s stronghold to start with. After consulting his map and working out that they needed to climb every hill between them and Markarth, they set off in the morning sunshine.

Dyce told her interesting snippets about places he’d been, and gave her pieces of advice he’d learned the hard way on his travels. They had lunch sitting on some sun-warmed rocks, and Dyce found it hard to draw Borgakh into conversation. She was definitely paying attention to what he said, but seemed more interested in evaluating him than sharing much about herself.

Well, she had lived a rather sheltered life. He didn’t even know how many humans other than Forsworn she’d actually met.

“I rather push on,” he said, as they paused to catch their breath and look at the sun sinking over the mountains in the west. “If we spend the night out here, we’ll have to keep watch for Forsworn or risk being gutted in our sleep.”

“Indeed.”

“Speaking of which, it’s rather odd that we haven’t seen any.”

Borgakh looked up at the slope behind them. “They know we’re here,” she said quietly.

“Do they give you trouble?” Dyce asked.

“They know better than to attack an Orc stronghold or a hunting party,” she replied. “But an Orc alone? It’s hard to say.”

“Well, let’s keep moving then.”

They travelled on, and a few stars started to twinkle in the evening sky. As they trudged up over a rise, Dyce pointed. “Look, the lights of Markarth. We’re nearly there.”

His good cheer evaporated when they crested the rise, however. Before them was a shallow valley, the floor dotted with a linked series of shallow pools from which a stream flowed. And among, and on platforms build over these pools was the largest Forsworn encampment Dyce had ever seen.

Borgakh halted beside him and Dyce leaned up to whisper in her slightly pointed ear, “I think we should go around.”

She nodded.

They hurried back down the slope, as fast and quietly as they could. Dyce concentrated on not tripping over a rock in the deepening gloom. He heard Borgakh gasp.

“Husband! Look out!”

Dyce snapped his head up and stared at her. “Wait. _What_?”

And then he stumbled and nearly fell as pain lanced through him, and he looked down to see the shaft and feathered end of a Forsworn arrow jutting from his chest.

Borgakh dropped their packs and drew her blade while Dyce ducked out the way of more Forsworn arrows.

“Don’t pull it!” she commanded. “They’re barbed.”

“I guess I can learn to live with it then,” Dyce said through gritted teeth as he drew his own bow. Husband? _Husband?_ He’d have to worry about it later.

They’d been ambushed by a small group, and thankfully the alarm hadn’t been raised at the camp; at least, not yet. Borgakh charged down the slope, battering aside arrows with her shield. Dyce picked a rock to crouch behind and took aim at the opposing archers.

 

It hurt to breathe and to pull back his bow, but he didn’t think he was going to pass out or anything as drastic as that, and despite the awkwardness of having an arrow in his way, his aim wasn’t off. The last light in the western sky silhouetted the archers, while in the gloom below them in a small dip, Borgakh battled the warriors.

Dyce killed quietly. Borgakh did not. Her sword and shield rang against her enemies and she shouted with rage and glee as she lopped off another Forsworn head. Dyce frowned and listened.

He heard what he feared he might; shouts of alarm from the settlement behind them. He winced as he took a breath to raise his voice, “They’ve heard us! We have to go.”

They paused for a moment. It looked like they’d wiped out the patrol. Borgakh, apparently inexhaustible, ran back up the slope and scooped up their packs.

“This way,” Dyce said weakly, indicating a southerly direction with an outstretched hand. “Rorikstead’s in that direction. We can stay there.”

“Lean on me if you need to,” Borgakh said, her sword still drawn and sticking close by his side as they hurried away, every jolting step sending pain blooming through Dyce’s chest. He wanted to cough. He didn’t. He suspected it would be a bad idea if he did.

They slowed and stopped once they’d put some distance between them and the Forsworn camp. They waited, listening, for a few moments.

“I think we lost them,” Dyce said. “What do I do about this? Can you fix it?”

To his relief, Borgakh nodded. “Depending on where it is, I can cut it out or push it through. But I’ll need better light. How far is Rorikstead?”

“I have no idea,” Dyce said. “Pass me a potion, would you?”

“No. Healing the wound around the arrow will only make it worse to take out later. I’m sorry, husband.”

“Why are you calling me that?”

“Because we are married,” she said simply.

“We most certainly are not!”

“You paid my dowry. By Orc custom, we are married.”

“I never agreed to be married.”

“You paid my dowry.”

In the dark he couldn’t read her expression. Tired and in pain he gave up for now, and they walked side by side to Rorikstead.

They acquired a room at the Frostfruit Inn without trouble, despite the late hour and Mralki recognised Dyce and asked if there was anything he could do to help his injured guest. Erik wasn’t in evidence, but given Mralki’s attitude, Dyce thought it safe to assume his adventuring was going well.

“I can handle it,” Borgakh said, dumping their packs on the floor and indicating that Dyce should sit on the bed.

Dyce sat in silence as Borgakh knelt in front of him and prodded his wound with a wickedly sharp orcish dagger.

“I need to cut it out,” she said, looking up into his face. “It’s not in too deep. Your armour was good for something.”

“That is why I wear it. Do what you have to- nargh!”

“Don’t move!”

“Yeah yeah.”

Dyce gritted his teeth and after some mercifully quick field surgery, Borgakh yanked the arrow free and offered a healing potion up to his lips.

“I can do it myself,” Dyce said, taking the bottle and upending it.

Borgakh stood and left the room, and Dyce could hear her asking Mralki for some food. Dyce undid his armour and pulled it and the blood stained undershirt off to better examine his brand new scar. He’d have to patch his armour as well, he noted, but it wasn’t a large hole.

All in all, he thought, as he ran his hand over his ribs, he’d had worse.

“He’s going to heat up some stew,” Borgakh said when she returned.

“I see. Thanks for digging that arrow out.”

“Of course, husband.”

“Will you please stop calling me that?” Dyce snapped. “My name is Dyce and I did not agree to marry anyone.”

Her attitude had changed slightly. Now they were in a bedroom rather than the Stronghold or the open road, she seemed less certain, her eyes flicking from his face to his chest and back up again.

“I am your first wife then?” she said, raising her head a bit higher, proudly.

“Well, I suppose. Although by Orcish law I’d technically be married to Erik. I did pay for him to leave home as well after all.”

“He’s a man, isn’t he? You can’t marry him.”

“The Nords don’t make a distinction. I take it Orcs do?”

“Two men may bind themselves by adopting an orphan, but it is not common. They cannot have children, you see.”

“Yes, I do understand how it works.”

They fell silent as Mralki arrived with some bread and stew. Dyce asked him how Erik was going.

“He sends me letters, when he remembers. And a bit of gold sometimes. He travels with the traders fighting bandits.”

“I’m glad he’s doing well. Don’t let us disturb your sleep any further.”

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” he nodded at them both before withdrawing.

Dyce ate swiftly, Borgakh thoughtfully.

“Do you have a house?” she asked.

“Yeah, in Windhelm. I have someone looking after it for me.”

“That’s good. Children should grow up in a home rather than on the road.”

Dyce nearly choked and he coughed violently for a few moments. “What?” he asked, when he could breathe again.

She took a deep breath, “When you desire children, I am ready.”

An image of Calder bouncing a baby Orc on his knee formed in Dyce’s mind. “No.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “No, no and no. No children. Not for me.” He swallowed a truly awful elixir every two weeks to make sure of it.

“Right,” Borgakh said, looking relieved.

“I’m not some old Orc chieftain looking to start a dynasty. Or build a stronghold.”

“I’m sorry. My training did not anticipate...” she trailed off, frowning.

Dyce scowled. “I’m going to wash this blood off and go to bed.” He got to his feet and stalked out to look for a pail of water. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel sorry for her. He did. She could cleave heads like they were eggs and could probably lift him one-handed, but she was also clearly a bit lost now she was outside her stronghold.

He couldn’t just abandon her until she found her feet. Markarth first, then if things didn’t improve maybe some of his Orcish acquaintances would have some ideas because Dyce was out of his depth.

But not married. Nope. No way. He’d just have to convince her of the fact.

When he returned, she’d shed her armour and had gotten into bed. Muscular green shoulders rose above the furs, but the rest of her was left mostly to his imagination. He’d already worked out that she was sort of gorgeous. Shame she claimed to be married.

Dyce sat on the opposite side of the bed and started taking his boots off.

“Are we going to consummate our marriage?” Borgakh asked.

At least she’d asked first.

“No.” He tossed his boots aside and stood up to take off his trousers.

“Is it because I’m an Orc?”

“No.” He left his smalls on.

“Is it because I’m a woman?”

“No.” He got into bed, and settled down under the furs.

“Are you nervous? I am a little.”

He sighed and replied in a more sympathetic tone, “No.”

“Are you uncertain what to do? I have been trained; I could try and teach you.”

He huffed in amusement, “No, that’s not necessary.”

“Are you worried that you might not satisfy me because you are a Breton?”

“By the Nine, let me sleep!” he growled. “And no, I’m not.”

He woke up the next morning with Borgakh’s breath tickling his ear, her arm wrapped around his chest, and an erection. Dyce sighed and tried to wriggle away without waking her up. He was only partially successful as she opened her eyes but only hummed inquiringly.

“I’m just getting breakfast,” he said. “Sleep on, we’re not leaving yet.”

Nevertheless, she was up and dressed by the time Dyce had placed his order with Mralki, who still kept the same early hours he remembered from his time with Erik. Dyce asked for more news of the adventurer, and while they ate the innkeeper filled him in on what he knew of his son.

Dyce asked Mralki to pass on an encouraging message when he next saw Erik, and he and Borgakh bid him farewell.

The inn door closed behind them and they stood in awkward silence for a while.

“Shall I carry your pack?” Borgakh asked, and Dyce could practically hear the ‘husband’ at the end of her enquiry.

“If I told you to go home, would you?” Dyce asked suddenly.

“Yes, hus- Dyce.”

“Then what would you do?”

“I would train, and wait for you to come back.”

“Urgh.” Dyce rubbed his cheek irritably. “I was afraid of that. It’s like that dog all over again.”

“Dog?” Borgakh asked.

Dyce started walking and indicated she should follow. There was nothing to be gained by wasting daylight. “I met a dog,” he explained. “A stray dog. He was fighting some wolves so I thought I’d help the little feller out.”

“Oh.”

“He took a shine to me then, started following me. I didn’t mind, I called him Mudface. But Mudface wasn’t very quiet, or very smart, and I nearly killed myself more than once rescuing him from his attempts to defend me. Eventually, I had to tell him to go home.” Dyce sighed and looked at the ground in front of him.

“I see.”

“He didn’t have a home, of course, but he went anyway.”

Borgakh scratched her head. “He was a dog,” she said, clearly not seeing what the fuss was about.

“He loved me!”

“Do you think I love you?” she asked, looking a bit startled.

“No. There is that at least. But you’ve bound yourself anyway, just with duty rather than love. In some ways it’s worse; you’re not going to forget me the next time someone waves a raw chop in your direction.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said.

“Maybe this is a real marriage after all,” Dyce said sourly, and the conversation ended.

Markarth rose ahead of them, as forbidding and cryptic as always. The roads started to fill with farmers and soldiers, but no one paid them much attention. Borgakh opened her eyes wide and drank the scene in.

“Are we here to trade?” she asked.

“I might sell some things but I’m actually here to solve a murder.”

“Really? Is that what you do then, solve murders?”

“Well, not all the time, but I solved some in Windhelm and the one that happened here has been weighing on me. It happened right in front of my eyes, but at the time I was more concerned about where my next meal was coming from.”

“How are you going to solve the murder?” Borgakh seemed genuinely interested.

“The first step will be finding out more about the victim. I just hope someone remembers her after all these months.”

“So do I,” Borgakh said with determination. Dyce smiled.

Borgarkh said she’d been to Markarth once before, but she’d been so young she barely remembered it. Dyce let her have her head, fingering the wares at the markets, trotting up and down the myriad of stone steps, and marvelling at the sheer number of humans.

Despite the amount of time that had passed, Dyce made good progress with his investigation. Such good progress in fact, that by the time evening fell, a guard accosted him and told him to back off. After he’d gone Borgakh turned to Dyce and asked him what he was going to do.

“The chieftain of this hold might not want the murder solved,” she pointed out.

“It’s not merely the Jarl we have to worry about. Jarls come and go, and I’ve replaced a few in my time, including this one. He’s a Silver-Blood, and the Silver-Bloods are something a bit more complicated.”

“Are you going to give up?”

Dyce grinned, “Nah, I’m really curious now. I think we should pay the other Sliver-Blood brother a visit.”

The visit to the treasury went much worse than even Dyce had anticipated, with the Forsworn agents killing Betrid Silver-Blood. Dyce had to do some killing himself when he visited Nepos, Borgath backing him up with enthusiasm.

“There’s a Forsworn king,” Borgakh said, her eyes alight as they left the house, Dyce paging through Nepos’s journal. “We discovered it! Well, you discovered it. This is incredible. It would explain why they’re so strong. What now?”

“I don’t know. In fact, it’s at this point I wish I was being paid at all for this. I was doing this just because I was asked. Just doing a good deed.” He frowned at her, “Which doesn’t always turn out like one expects. Well, he said he’d meet me again in the Shrine of Talos, and it’s nearly midnight. I suspect there won’t be anything either of us can do about this, but I got him an explanation at least.”

Eltrys was dead, slaughtered on the abandoned shrine, and his murderers, dressed in the uniforms of Markarth’s guards, were waiting for them. Borgakh tensed at Dyce’s side, her hand on the hilt of her sword, waiting on his order to attack.

Dyce narrowed his eyes as they called on him to surrender. He could take them. He had a powerful warrior at his side, and the voice of a dragon curling in this throat. Dyce had been a wanted man on occasion before. But there was wanted and there was wanted; getting a reputation as a guard killer meant that a future attempt to surrender might be ‘accidentally’ overlooked.

Dyce took a deep breath and slowly put his hands on the back of his head. “I won’t fight,” he said quietly.

“Get her out of here. Not a word, you understand, Orc?”

“No!” Borgakh stepped closer.

Dyce shook his head; he didn’t want her to try any heroics. Instead she put her hands behind her head too.

“He’s my husband. Where he goes, I go.”

“Have it your way.”

Dyce was unresisting as they relieved them of their weapons and bound their hands. Borgakh kept avoiding his eye.

“You’re just lucky I’ve had a bit of practice breaking out of prison,” he murmured in Borgakh’s ear before they were forcibly separated. Dyce was not surprised when most of the formalities were dispensed with. They weren’t even taken to the prison under Understone Keep.

Instead they were taken straight down into the mines.

The mine guards, mostly Orcs, watched as they were told to strip, and Dyce caught a glimpse of Borgakh’s high, rather flat breasts, the dark nipples hardening in the cold air, and the curve of her generous backside as she removed her armour. But it was not the time for shame nor appreciation.

They were given rough cloth rags and walked for what felt like hours down crudely carved stone ramps. At the base of the shaft was the rest of the prison complex, and Dyce was alarmed to note that their cage was closed not with a lock but a lever which was well out of reach once they had entered the prison proper.

Dyce frowned, and Borgakh looked at him with concern.

This wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. They were shoved through into the mine and advised to get to work. The gate clanged closed behind them, and Borgakh took a deep, slightly shaky breath.

They were being observed, as around a small fire, a group of hard-faced and ragged prisoners had noticed their arrival.

“What now?” she asked.

Dyce reached over and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “We find out what’s what. This is the first prison I’ve been in that encourages the prisoners to try and tunnel their way free.” He gave her a smile. Someone, somewhere would have at least started an escape attempt.

“Besides,” he added more quietly. “Madanach is down here. If we want to fix what’s going on here, Cidhna Mine might just be where we want to be.”

“I don’t want to be here for the rest of my life,” she confessed.

“Borgakh,” he stepped in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I will get us out of here, trust me.” He looked into her golden eyes and realised she didn’t, not really. To her credit she was trying, but he suspected the scrappy human she saw before her didn’t engender a lot of confidence. He quirked a rueful smile, and shook his head, “Why did you marry me?”

She didn’t give him an answer, and they approached the fire, to see who was in charge around here.

Borkul the Beast was in charge. At least, he was standing in for Madanach, whose doorway he guarded. He didn’t seem entirely surprised Dyce wanted to talk to the Forsworn king, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“You can beat me in combat,” Borkul said, flexing his muscles and grinning. “Or you can find me a new shiv. I don’t care which.”

Dyce would have considered offering other services, but Borkul could barely peel his eyes away from Borgakh. Dyce’s charms weren’t going to do him much good here. Not with this sort of competition.

Dyce had no fears that he wouldn’t be able to get his hands on a shiv, one way or another, but once he acquired a weapon, he’d be mad to give it up. That left fighting. Dyce fought quick and mean, and barflies twice his size were often caught unprepared, but Borkul would not be. He’d had the measure of Dyce as soon as he saw him, and grinned, showing a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth, to let him know he was looking forward to taking him apart.

The fight would be far from a sure thing.

“How about you?” Borkul turned to Borgakh. “Wanna wrestle?”

Borgakh drew herself up, “If I fight you, it will be on behalf of my husband.”

Borkul flicked his gaze briefly to Dyce and back again, “Ah well, plenty of time for you to become a widow.”

“Come on,” Dyce said. “Let’s see who else we can talk to.”

Borgakh followed him closely as they explored the prison. None of their fellow inmates showed a lot of promise; most of them were Forsworn sympathisers and Dyce suspected not being a Forsworn sympathiser would tend to shorten one’s lifespan down here.

There was a clanging sound from the entrance and as one all the prisoners downed tools and made their way to the central area. Dyce and Borgakh watched as they handed over the ore they had mined in exchange for a bowl of stew and some bread. Borkul received far more than the others; enough for his master as well and handed over no ore in exchange.

Since they hadn’t mined anything, Dyce and Borgakh had to make do with a few slices of hard, stale bread. Borgakh crunched through her portion and Dyce gave up on his and let her eat that as well. It was clear they couldn’t stay down here.

Dyce and Borgakh sat huddled in a corner as they discussed their next move.

“We’ve got two choices,” Dyce said. “I can blow Duach for some skooma to trade for a shiv.” A needlessly complicated chain of commerce, but Dyce fancied the Breton far more than Grisvar. “Or I can take the fight directly to the Orc.”

Borgakh frowned, “I want to fight him. Will you let me fight him?”

“Uh. Are you sure? I mean, I know you’ve trained, but I’ve actually fought. Brutes like him don’t go down easily.”

“I’ve seen your scars. I know.” She narrowed her eyes as she glanced over at Borkul, “I just hate the way he looks at me. I want to wipe that stupid fucking leer off his face. My blood is boiling, Dyce. This is as it should be. And if I beat him.”

“No one here’s gonna mess with you,” Dyce finished.

“Trust me.” They both realised she was echoing his words from earlier.

Dyce smiled. Someone had to trust. “Okay. If you do fight him, that’ll give me a chance to lift a couple of shivs while everyone else is distracted. If he does anything untoward to you,” he looked into her eyes. “I will put a pick through the back of his skull.”

Borgakh nodded, “Thank you, for believing in me. And for the offer of the pick.” She hesitated for a moment, and then decided to speak, “Borkul is- he reminds me of how I imagined the husband my father would have chosen for me. All teeth and swagger and spite and strength. I will be stronger.”

“We’ve got nothing to gain by waiting,” Dyce said. “Whenever you’re ready, challenge the sod.”

Borgakh got to her feet and squared her shoulders. “Borkul!” She strode towards him.

As Dyce had predicted, the fight had brought all the ragged and surly prisoners out of the shadows and into the central area. They built up the fire a bit more and made space for the combatants.

“I’m fighting for Dyce,” Borgakh said clearly. “If I win, he gets to see Madanach.”

“Sure,” Borkul drawled. “Sure.”

The first punch Borkul copped right on the chin. He barely moved. Dyce could see both opponents were sizing each other up; Borgakh hadn’t overreached herself and left an opening. They circled each other, swinging and ducking, and Dyce could hear the dull thuds of fists striking flesh over the crackle of the flames.

He had to trust Borgakh had this, at least for now, and Dyce slunk back into the shadows, his fingers slipping into pockets, looking for a shiv.

He’d found two, some skooma which he’d left, and a lot of dirt, when the crowd moved as one, and Dyce elbowed his way closer to the fight.

Borgakh was off balance. Both she and Borkul were covered in dust that stuck to the sweat on their skins and streaked their warpaint. It was hard to tell if either of them had taken a lot of damage; bruises didn’t show up on Orcs, but they were both reeling slightly, and their breathing was harsh.

Dyce saw Borkul make his mistake. With Borgakh reeling, he paused to wind up a punch that would put her out for the count. It was a split second that saw her fists bunch and her eyes narrow in pure rage, and she lowered her shoulder and charged her opponent. She roared as he brought his fists down on her back, but he was off guard.

She pummeled him, over and over, striking at his chest and stomach and arms with an energy like one possessed. Dyce could hear her chanting, ‘I won’t, I won’t’ over and over again as Borkul tried, and failed, to regain the upper hand.

Eventually, the big Orc fell to his knees, and the crowd cheered. Dyce doubted they would have cared much either way who won. Just as long as someone bit the dirt.

Borgakh sagged, the rage that had buoyed her leaving her just as fast as it had arrived. She turned to Dyce and he found himself supporting her as she draped her arms over his shoulders.

“I won’t,” she muttered. “I won’t let him beat me.”

“You did good,” Dyce said. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. “You did great. I’m so proud of you. Take this.” He took advantage of her nearness to palm a shiv and press it into her hand. “I’ll be quick if I can, but don’t hesitate to use this if you have to. They’re going to notice sooner or later that they’ve been robbed.”

He could feel her nod. She was so warm, and he was so tired. And she smelled good, like dust and fresh sweat, not the week-old reek of everyone else in prison. He found himself hoping he could forget she was married.

Only a few moments later she straightened up, raising her head proudly, and Dyce stepped back.

Dyce looked at Borkul, “Well? You gonna let me past?”

“Sure.” The Orc got to his feet, and unlocked the door. “We’ll see what Madanach makes of you.”

Madanach didn’t make much of him at all. Dyce could see how he thought himself a king, and he understood why Ulfric had had such a hard time putting down the Forsworn uprising. It had to have been a battle worth seeing.

“Well, well. Look at you. The Nords have turned you into an animal. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad. So, my fellow beast, what do you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?”

“I want out of here,” Dyce said.

"Your freedom? Yes. But even if you were to escape Cidhna Mine, your name would still be stained with all that blood."

Dyce didn’t answer. He’d worry about his name later.

“There's a man named Braig inside these mines. Besides me, he's been here the longest. Tell him I sent you. Ask him why he's here. I want you to know how widespread the injustice of Markarth is.”

Borkul was not surprised when Dyce returned and asked to be directed to Braig. Apparently it was Madanach’s way of beginning some kind of initiation process. Borgakh was waiting for him, arms folded, leaning against the wall. Dyce shook his head. He didn’t have anything yet.

Braig’s story was what Dyce had been expecting. He’d seen the face of war after all, and had walked a mile in both a soldier’s boots and a prisoner’s rags.

When he returned, Madanach was waiting. “Imagine hearing a story like that, over and over. Each time a different family Each time a different injustice. Your meddling above ground reminded me of how removed I've been from the struggle. My men and I should be in the hills, fighting.”

“Do you really think that will make a difference in the long run?” Dyce asked.

“The old ways will lead us back to having a kingdom of our own. That is who we are. The Forsworn. Criminals in our own lands. And we will cut a bloody hole into the Reach until we are free.”

Dyce shifted his jaw. “History is just a litany of injustice. For every wrong, a thousand more are committed in revenge. The only thing we can do is seek to defend the innocents who are alive now.” The shiv was warm against Dyce’s palm. “People like Eltrys. So fuck you.”

Markarth was rotten, right down to the bedrock, and Dyce had no illusions that he could somehow cure the city. But he could lop this head off the hydra at least. Without even thinking about it he lashed out with the improvised weapon, twisting it past Madanach’s ribs and finding his heart.

Caught by surprise, Madanach could only gape, and thrash about like a landed fish until he finally was still, his life’s blood bubbling over Dyce’s fingers and a look of sheer shock on his face, that someone _dared_.

Dyce yanked the weapon out of Madanach’s chest. That hadn’t quite gone according to plan.

To his relief, Madanach had a key on him, and it fit the lock to the gate that led off into the dark from the passageway to Madanach’s room. It had to go somewhere, and anywhere was better than Cidhna Mine. Dyce cleaned the blood off his shiv and off his hand, and took a deep breath.

“Borgakh,” Dyce called. “Madanach wants to see the Orc who beat Borkul in a fair fight.” He grinned.

“Really?” Borgakh said, as Borkul scowled and stood aside for her to enter.

“Oh yeah, I think he’s got plans for you.”

Borgakh strode ahead of him and then stopped when she reached Madanach’s room. She looked over her shoulder at Dyce with an unreadable expression.

“You killed him,” she said quietly.

“Mm. I don’t feel terribly bad about it. Do you think I should?”

“No, I just-” She looked over the corpse again. “You didn’t even give him time to fight back.” A tooth scraped across her bottom lip. “Maybe you can get us out of here after all.”

“Well, I’ve found a way out, but I don’t know where it goes.”

Borgakh smiled at him, “I’m following.”

This time, he didn’t hear an unspoken ‘husband’ at the end of it.

Dyce locked the door behind them. Not everyone in Cidhna Mine deserved to be there, but Dyce was not going to give them the chance to get revenge on the people of Markarth. The passageway led off into the dark, and Dyce took the lead.

The first signs of life he found were a great number of spiderwebs, and he waited for Borgakh to catch up. The passageway was no longer silent; a soft rustling sound was coming from up ahead.

Skyrim’s spiders hadn’t bothered Dyce much once he’d gotten over the original shock of how big they were, but he rarely went adventuring without sharp steel and armour either, and his heart sank at the sight of dozens of huge, hairy legs silhouetted against what he now realised was a definite glow up ahead of them.

There was no way he could sneak Borgakh past the creatures; there was nothing for it but to wade in. The shiv seemed hopelessly undersized; spiders didn’t have weak points as such; you just had to mush their insides until they stopped moving.

It was a crunchy, squelchy battle, and it went on for far too long, in Dyce’s estimation. His arms ached and buzzed from poison, and blood welled from a dozen small wounds. He heard Borgakh hiss when she got bitten, but they were trying not to wake whatever else might be down here and kept quiet.

The rags he wore grew more ragged as he stomped and punched and battered the creatures. By the time the last twitching leg stopped twitching, he was up to his elbows in substances he didn’t want to think about, and generously sprinkled with spider hairs, which tended to break off and itch whoever came in contact with them.

“Yuk.” Dyce gave up and took off what remained of his shirt, using the relatively clean interior to wipe off the worst of the goo. When he offered it to Borgakh, she seemed bemused that he was even bothered.

To Dyce’s relief, the hand carved tunnel opened up into a larger room, lit by steady gas flames trapped behind glass.

“What is this place?” Borgakh asked, tapping one of the lamps experimentally.

“Dwemer ruin,” Dyce said. “Markarth’s built on top of a Dwemer city. This is a good sign; there has to be a way out of here.”

Dyce had been waiting for the familiar tik-a-tak sounds of Dwarven spiders, and he was not left waiting for long. This was something he could use his shiv on.

“Break the soul gem,” he advised, as the mechanical creatures advanced. “Or puncture one of the steam reservoirs.” He demonstrated, darting in and skewering one.

Borgakh raised an eyebrow. Then she reached out, and picked up one of the spiders, ignoring the way its legs tried to strike at her, and brought it down with all her strength on the stone floor. With a squeal of tortured metal and a shower of sparks, the spider disintegrated.

“That works too,” Dyce said. He could see her teeth gleam as she grinned. “In fact, you’ve given me an idea.” He put his foot on the spider in front of him, seized two of its legs, and pulled. “There is a lot of truth to the overused line that size doesn’t matter,” he said through gritted teeth. Wrenching the spider’s legs free, he staggered back. “But it can help.”

Borgakh laughed, “You could almost be an Orc, sometimes.”

Dyce flailed around experimentally with his new weapons for a few moments. “Why thank you. Let’s get out of here.”

When they ran across a couple of sphere centurions, Borgakh followed his example by ripping a sword off one and beating it to death while Dyce dodged and stabbed at the other.

Best of all, they found themselves climbing stairs. Despite the fact that they hadn’t slept in nearly two days, the thought of freedom pushed them on, past the bruises and spider bites.

When they reached the huge, bronze door, for a moment Dyce was afraid it was rusted shut. Then Borgakh put her shoulder to it as well, and with a resentful screech it opened.

And there was sunlight, pouring down over the city of Markarth spread below them. Dyce’s eyes watered as he stared up into a rare cloudless sky. He found himself gulping fresh air, and it tasted sweeter than mead. He wondered if he was drunk on it. He felt drunk.

Water poured down through the channels from the mountain behind them, and he and Borgakh stumbled down the steps to the nearest bridge. They scooped up the water with their hands, and drank and drank. Despite the near-freezing temperature and the fact that public washing was probably frowned on, they scrubbed at their arms and faces, and let their feet dangle in the water.

Dyce had blisters. He wasn’t used to walking barefoot.

They grinned at each other. Most of the warpaint had been washed off Borgakh’s face, and only a few streaks of red clay remained around her eyes. Dyce could see the hair starting to grow back on the shaved portions of her head, just a dark fuzz that he was very tempted to touch, just to see what it felt like.

So he did. Just his fingertips on the side of her head, both of them still beaded with water. It felt like he imagined it would, soft, short bristles that invited rubbing, or stroking. She kept grinning at him, teeth white against lips a darker green than the rest of her skin. Eyes like sunrise.

Borgakh reached forward to run her fingers through his ponytail, tugging gently on the damp ends.

“It’s so pretty,” she said, like it was a decoration rather that part of him. “I like the colour. And it’s so long.” She rubbed his hair between her fingertips.

He could have done something with that, made a joke, but he didn’t. He was content to let her play with his hair. Well no, not content. There was more he wanted, and he wanted it more with each passing moment.

Eventually she lifted her gaze from his hair and looked into his eyes again. He felt her lean in when he did, and he cupped the side of her head with his hand before sliding his fingers down the side of her face and pressing his mouth to hers. He felt her tug slightly at his hair as her fingers tangled in it.

She parted her lips for him, hot and welcoming, but Dyce took his time, feeling her tusks press against his lips and then he flicked his tongue over her lower lip to investigate one further. It wasn’t sharp. He tilted his head and took the other between his lips. She liked his hair; he liked her teeth and he wondered what they’d feel like on either side of his cock; he thought he’d fit fairly neatly between them.

He purred at the thought and then Borgakh abandoned his hair and wrapped both her arms around him, her calloused hands running up and down his bare back as he shifted closer. She tried to suck on his teeth and he chuckled and showed her how it was really done; a tangle of lips and tongues and irregular breathing.

When they broke apart her eyes were shining. “I want you,” she said with some surprise, as if she’d just noticed something new. “I mean, I want to have sex with you.”

Dyce raised his eyebrows in surprise and grinned, “Well you certainly are straightforward about it.”

“Is that not how it’s done?” She looked slightly defensive, rather than embarrassed.

“No, you’ve covered all the important points.” He leaned in and dropped his voice a notch, “I think something could be arranged.” He pulled his by now rather cold feet from the water. “After we get our gear back and maybe something to eat. I don’t think this scrap metal’s gonna sell for much.”

Dyce was still trying to work out the best way to retrieve his equipment, and how to get out of Markarth if they were still on a wanted list, when Thonar Silver-Blood, an overladen servant in tow, made his way up the steps to the bridge they were sitting on.

“Hm, this should be interesting,” Dyce said.

“It seems I was wrong about you,” he greeted them. “You killed Madanach. I still don’t know why he slew Betrid, but his only punishment would have been death.”

“I think he was planning to break out,” Dyce said. “He’d had enough of doing your dirty work.”

“Then I’m grateful you were there to pick up the slack. Your crimes have been expunged from the record-”

“They weren’t my crimes to start with!”

“Well, it turned out for the best then, didn’t it? Here are your things.” He gestured to the servant who placed the bundles down in front of them with obvious relief. “And now, I think it would be best for you if you let things alone from now on. You stuck your nose in and nearly got it cut off; you might not be so lucky next time.”

And with that, he turned and left them. Dyce made a rude gesture at his back, but frankly he was relieved. The sooner he left this mess behind him, the better. There wasn’t really anywhere suitable to get changed, and Dyce draped his cloak around himself and hefted his pack.

“Let’s go to the inn,” he suggested.

“Right behind you,” Borgakh said. “Are you going to go after that man?”

“Nah. He’s an ally, at least until the war’s over. It’ll take a better politician than I to fix what’s wrong with this place.”

“You could kill him, like you killed the Forsworn king.”

“That’s an Orc’s solution. People are connected. Once you start killing them, it gets quite hard to stop. I don’t like killing people.”

They made their way to the Silver-Blood in (Dyce realised there really was no getting away from that family in Markarth) and sat by the fire, ordering and devouring vast quantities of food.

“Imagine living down there for twenty years,” Dyce said, mopping gravy off his place with a slice of bread. “Or better yet, don’t.”

“I’m so glad you got us out of there,” Borgakh said.

“You did your fair share,” Dyce pointed out. “The look on Borkul’s face when he realised you were going to win the fight was one worth remembering.”

“I really wasn’t as certain as I pretended that I was going to win,” she said softly, looking down at her bruised hands.

“I know.”

She looked oddly pleased with herself, or maybe him.

“Shall we go to bed?” he asked, and he willed her, with everything he had, not to mention marriage.

He didn’t have to worry. She drained the rest of her mead and got to her feet almost immediately. “I’d worried you’d forgotten.”

Dyce laughed. He’d paid for a room when he’d ordered their meals, and the first thing he did when they arrived was pull all the furs off the bed.

“What are you doing?” Borgakh asked, hovering a bit uncertainly.

“These,” Dyce gestured at the bed. “Are genuine Dwemer stone beds, and if you’re insane, you sleep on them like that. However, if you want to wake up without a broken back, the trick is to unroll your bedroll over the top.” He demonstrated, and then dumped the furs back into place before dusting off his hands. “Honestly, it’s no surprise they all died out.”

“You know a lot of things,” Borgakh said.

Dyce shrugged and added his cloak to the pile on the bed, “I’ve travelled around a bit.” He smiled at her and tilted his head in invitation, “Come on, enough about me. I want to kiss you some more.”

Their height difference was more pronounced now that they were standing up, but Dyce well knew a Breton was severely limiting himself in Skyrim if he refused to crane his neck a little.

Borgakh was getting the hang of it. Dyce didn’t need to encourage her as she flicked her tongue against his lips and ran her fingers through his hair. Dyce reached back and pulled his hair free of his ponytail. He didn’t normally wear it down because it tended to get in the way, no matter what he was doing, but she clearly liked it.

Dyce wrapped his arms around her waist and walked them back towards the bed. When the back of his knees hit the side he let himself stumble backwards, pulling her with him. Her elbows landed either side of his head.

She looked down at him, stroking his nose and his lips. “You’re covered in little spots,” she said.

Dyce looked alarmed until he realised what she was talking about, “They’re called freckles.”

“I like them.” She leaned down and started kissing his cheek.

“If you’re going to kiss all of them, you might want to clear the rest of your week,” Dyce chuckled. “They’re not just on my face.” Not that he minded. The warm weight of her, and her eager lips - punctuated by the occasional scrape of a tusk - were enough to make his blood pound and his cock was pressed against her hip.

She ran her hands over his shoulders, and trailed her fingers down his chest, “You’re right, they’re everywhere.”

“Well not everywhere.” He grinned.

“You’re really pretty,” she said.

“So are you.”

“Really? You mean that?”

He lowered his voice, “How would you like me to prove it?”

They hadn’t bothered to put their armour back on just to eat dinner, and Dyce was not in the least bit sorry to get rid of his prison-issued trousers. He slithered out of them without ceremony, and crawled up onto the bed more properly, shifting the furs around to make room for Borgakh.

She stood in the center of the room while Dyce stretched out on the bed, and they watched each other. Well, Dyce watched her, from the expression on her face to the muscled green curves of her body; Borgakh mostly stared at his cock.

“All right?” he asked her eventually.

“It’s a little bigger than I expected,” she admitted. He’d been threatening to flag under her silent scrutiny but her words had him twitching against his stomach. “I’m sure it will be fine,” she said with a smile, and joined him on the bed, crawling over him on hands and knees.

He took the opportunity to palm her breasts, his eyes on her face as he tried to work out what she liked. She barely seemed to notice at first but when he gently twisted her nipples she shivered and grunted quietly. He took that as a good sign and replaced one of his hands with his mouth, rasping his tongue across the hardened nub. She gasped then, and took her weight on one arm to cradle the back of his head with her other hand.

He let his hands wander, feeling her stomach muscles quiver as he did so. He was unable to resist digging his fingertips into the curve of her buttocks before trailing them over the fine hairs on her thighs.

Then he fell back onto the pillow. “My neck is going to give out,” he said.

Her turn. He lay back and let her touch him, and clearly she was eager to get her hands on him. She made him squirm by poking his ribs, and she squeezed his hip bones, all the while working her way closer to his cock.

She touched it gently, in contrast to her other explorations, which had been firm and assured. Dyce’s breath hitched, but he didn’t say anything as she cradled it with one hand and stroked the underside with the other.

“I like it,” she said, and he could feel her breath on his skin.

“That’s good.” He thought he sounded a bit strangled. “I like it too.”

“So I should just-”

Dyce propped himself up on his elbows. “There is no should,” he said. “You do exactly what you want to do, no more and no less.”

“I want it!” she retorted fiercely. She squeezed him, as if making a point. His hips moved.

“I could oil it up if you like,” he offered.

“Can I do it?”

She sounded so eager Dyce chuckled and leaned over the side of the bed to hunt through his pack. “Sure. Go for your life.”

He handed her the bottle and lay back, watching her through half closed eyes. Dyce was not all that comfortable with debauching virgins; he barely remembered being one himself and he found lovers who didn’t know what they wanted irritating.

Borgakh, at least, knew what she wanted.

Dyce was going to suggest she stop stroking him if she wanted to do anything other than give him a handjob when she did just that, wiping her hands on his stomach and leaning up to kiss him.

“All ready,” she said, smiling against his mouth.

He was quite sure he was. “How about you?” he murmured. She was straddling his hips and he slid a hand down her stomach and toyed with the dark curls between her legs.

Her breath was shaky against his cheek. “Please.”

He obliged, and was pleased to note that the oil would probably be superfluous. She shuddered as he explored further, dipping his fingers into her folds, his cock aching to follow them.

She was panting, her fingers curling in the furs. “Stop!” she ordered, and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand away. He was concerned only for a moment, as she sat back and seized the base of his cock with one hand and his hip with the other. “That’s enough.”

He held his breath as she sank down onto him, and he forced himself to remain still. He watched her breath, feeling her clench around him, getting used to the feel of him.

“How is it?” Dyce asked, when he remembered he could speak. The look on her face already suggested the answer, as she started rocking her hips.

“You have no idea,” she breathed.

Dyce grinned. He might have had some.

She started slow, but Dyce was less than surprised when she fell forward onto him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and giving him biting, bruising kisses. She ground herself harder against him and Dyce guessed what she was after and worked a hand down between them to rub her clit. She bucked, and hissed happily.

Dyce could barely breathe. She was all around him, on top of him, she couldn’t have been fucking him more thoroughly if she’d tried. He loved feeling so used, so demanded. He could feel her orgasm approaching in the teeth that ground around his earlobe and in the muscles that clamped like iron around his arms and hips.

She flung her head back and he was grateful she had short, blunt fingernails because she would have drawn a lot of blood otherwise. She shouted and snarled and Dyce could only watch in awe as she came. It was like watching a force of nature in action; like an avalanche or rockfall.

It was only when she slumped against him that he realised he hadn’t come with her. He winced as he pulled his hand free and flexed fingers threatening to go numb.

Before she’d caught her breath, she rolled them both over and beamed at him, “Your turn.”

Dyce didn’t have many reserves left. He only had to thrust once, twice more and he only had to relive how hard she’d come around his cock and he came too, far more quietly but with no less intensity.

He lay on her for a while, listening to her heart beating. Only now did he remember that he’d not slept for the past couple of days, and nothing short of magic was going to keep him awake much longer. Borgakh seemed equally tired, and by unspoken agreement they rearranged themselves on Dyce’s bedroll and pulled the furs over them. Dyce heard a clunk as the bottle of oil rolled onto the floor, but he’d worry about that in the morning.

Dyce woke up with a cold chest. He pawed at the furs, trying to pull them up, and realised that Borgakh was sitting up, trapping them against her stomach. Judging by the smell of cooking, it was breakfast time at the inn.

“Morning,” Dyce said, rubbing his face and feeling two days worth of stubble scratching at his palms.

“I can do whatever I want, can’t I?” Borgakh asked.

“Well, within reason. Yeah.”

“I’m free.” She turned and looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I understand now, why you were so upset about being married. I didn’t think it through.”

“I know,” Dyce said.

“I thought it wouldn’t matter. I’d do everything you asked of me, and it would turn out. Maybe you’d die, or something like that.”

Dyce chuckled, “Wow. Well, that’s good to know.”

“I didn’t mean I wanted you to. I didn’t know what I wanted. I just had to get out of there. Away from everything so I could think, so I could see what else there was in the world besides strongholds and chieftains.”

“I know.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Dyce sighed, “This marriage is the result of some entirely obscure Orcish bylaw. No temple in Skyrim recognises it. Not to mention, you can’t marry someone without them knowing. And you know I could have slipped away at any time. You wouldn’t have noticed until I was gone, I guarantee it. But, you had your reasons. I could see that. The impulse that made me pay your dowry is still there; I want to help.”

Borgakh lay back down next to him, and wrapped an arm over his shoulders. He could feel her kiss the top of his head.

“You are kind,” she said. “Malacath teaches us that kindness is a weakness that begets weakness. But if you hadn’t been kind, would I be strong enough now to make my own choices?”

“I don’t know,” Dyce said, patting her hand. “It’s a long road you’re walking.”

They were silent for a while.

“You wouldn’t mind if I married someone else, would you?”

“Just tell them first,” Dyce suggested dryly.

“I mean.” She sat up again. “A chieftain has many wives so he can have children. You don’t want children, so there’s a reason for me to take another husband, and if _he_ doesn’t want children-”

Dyce laughed, “Yes, I get it. Go and have fun, Borgakh. Your husbands are going to be very lucky men.”

She smiled and rolled over, shuffling down the bed to rest her chin on his chest. “If you don’t mind, I’m always going to think of you as my first husband.”

“That’s all right,” Dyce said. “Safe to say, you’re likely to be my only wife.”


End file.
